A VILLAIN DEMANDS HIS WAGES.
"Oh pilot! 'tis a fearful night;
There's danger on the deep."
The Pilot.
Count De Montfort strolled leisurely to and fro on the rising ground in front of the castle, rapt in admiration of the fine scenery and noble woods which environed it on all its sides. Then he turned to take a leisurely survey of the massive proportions of the castle, and, with a veteran soldier's instincts, fell to a planning of additional fortifications, so as to increase its impregnability. Whilst thus engaged, a figure seen in the distance, caused the complacent smile to vanish from his countenance, and his visage grew dark with a frown. The intruder was none other than Baron Vigneau, who, after salutations, said,—
"When may I expect the fulfilment of the promise made to me at York, Count? Lady Alice has now had some months of preparation, and now the time has come when our nuptials should be celebrated."
"Well, what says the lady, Baron? If you have her consent there need be no further delay. I have no opposition to offer, though, as Alice's father, and wishing her happiness, I am bound to say I wish you would eschew the wine-cup. I note with pain and concern this most unwholesome habit grows apace."
"Tut, tut, Count! Many thanks for your homily! But to the point in hand. I have no recollection that the lady's consent had aught to do with the bargain. Soldiers usually dispense with ceremonies of that description, and, by your consent, we will still consider it apart from her ladyship's wishes or whims. 'Twas, I think, a part of the wages of services rendered."
"But, as a soldier and a knight, making professions of gallantry and the rest of it, you would not think of forcing a lady's hand? Surely you have opportunities of winning her as a soldier should. I have expressly stated that such are my wishes. What more can you expect of me?"
"Finely spoken no doubt! But I would remind you of a matter which you know well enough without a reminder, that I have not the manners of a simpering gallant, nor am I used to chanting love-songs beneath my lady's window. I am a soldier, a blunt and unpolished one maybe. Alice has been thoroughly well spoiled, that is plain enough, by prating nuns and her convent life. Her head has been filled with their silly notions of romance, and religious scruples. My rough life does not fit me for playing the part of a dangling fop, or uttering canting lies about religion. Bah!"
"I cannot force my daughter into this marriage, Baron. Win her if you can," said the Count peremptorily.
"A bargain is a bargain, force or no force, and I'll have it kept. Any canting parade of virtue will not go down with me; I'm too familiar with your antecedents. If this promise is not ratified promptly, I'll straight away to the king and expose your foul conspiracy, and I shall have the pleasure of seeing your head dangling from the gate within a week. Then the haughty wench, your daughter, will rue the day she vented her scorn on me."
"Cowardly villain!" said the Count. "Come with me to yonder copse, and I'll measure steel with you."
"Not quite so fast, master. I keep my mettle for other purposes. We'll try steel as a last resort. But in the meantime, I'd rather have your daughter than your blood; and nothing prevents but the lack of your commands. Let these be forthcoming, and all is well; but I'll not be trifled with, mark me!"
So saying, he strode away, leaving De Montfort beside himself with rage and fear.
The same evening, as he and Alice sat together, he said,—
"Alice, I told you some time ago that I had betrothed you to Baron Vigneau, and I told you some other matters connected therewith, which I trust you have not forgotten. He has been claiming the fulfilment of my promise, and becomes very wroth and threatening. I trust you are prepared now to accept him at once."
"I cannot say that I am, father; the acquaintance I had with him in Normandy before the wars caused me to form but a poor opinion of him. I find that the life he has been leading since the wars began has brutalised him. His sottish habits, also, have become most outrageous. If you wish me to marry, let me make my choice. Or, better still, let me stay with you in singleness. You need some one to keep house for you, I'm sure."
"Alice, I told you I had betrothed you to Vigneau, which is a matter binding upon my honour; and 'tis a debt you must discharge. The Baron is not worse than many others whose life has been cast in these troublous times. He is also famous at the joust; his deeds of arms, also, and his personal prowess, are known throughout the land. Pray what would you have in a husband?"
"Father, I have no feelings but of abhorrence for him. If I may, I would very much prefer retiring to a convent, as I have said before, to spending my life with one so besotted and utterly lost to human feeling. If this will relieve you of your bond, pray give me permission, and I will prefer no other request."
"Alice, it does not suit me that you should retire to a convent, or do anything but obey me. Let me tell you, once for all, these mock heroics, these school-girl sentiments and bookish whims, cannot be tolerated. Your mother was betrothed to me by her parents, who never thought of asking her consent. I tell you once for all, this marriage shall be consummated this day three months. So let this suffice."
Alice retired to her room well-nigh heart-broken at her father's harshness and the hateful prospect of a union with Vigneau. She laid her face in her hands and sobbed most distressingly, defying Jeannette's utmost efforts to console her.
"What shall I do, Jeannette? I shall never wed Vigneau! I shall be sweetly sleeping in that still pool beneath the hazel trees, where we met the Saxon the other day, on the morning that Vigneau claims me for his bride."
"Hush, my lady! don't say that. Let us go again in the morning. Perhaps we may meet those Saxons again, and they will advise us what to do."
Jeannette dared not give utterance to the thing that was uppermost in her own mind. But as a simple matter of fact, the well-developed manhood of Wulfhere the Saxon had never been wholly absent from the waking thoughts of this coquettish damsel since that romantic interview she had had with him, when her ears tingled with a newborn delight, as she listened to his flattery in the wood by the riverside. She was, as a matter of fact, ready for any desperate enterprise or expedient that would result in another interview.
"We will, Jeannette. Perhaps we shall see the Saxon knight again. I had been taught to believe these Saxon chieftains were loutish boors. But I can assure you I found him anything but that."
"Yes, lady; and the other chieftain, who was with me, was a very handsome man, and spoke so pleasantly to me. I have heard, too, lady, they have built a fortress on the mountains. He asked me to be his wife, but I thought we should have to run wild in the woods, and sleep in caves; but if they have a fortress to live in, I would run away and be his wife, if you would run away with the other chieftain."
Alice smiled, in spite of herself, at Jeannette's willingness, evidently, to take Wulfhere pretty much on trust. But, nevertheless, the morrow found them wending their way to the river, where, getting out the boat, they pulled away up stream.
"I wonder if the Saxon, will see us, Jeannette?"
"If he should come, he will be sure to have his comrade with him. Don't you think he will?"
"I think you are in love with that tall bondman of the Saxon chieftain's, Jeannette."
"He is not a bondman of any one's my lady, for he told me so himself. He is a Saxon freeman."
"A 'freeman,' Jeannette. What does that mean, prithee?"
"A freeman is next to a knight, I believe; at least, they have lands of their own."
"Oh, is that so? Well, we shall soon reach the spot where we landed before. Shall we get out of the boat, think you?"
"I think we had better not, my lady, until we see them. What should we do if that fierce Saxon should catch us?"
"The Saxon earl told me his people would not harm us—any of them; but we must not be overbold. We are now completely out of sight of the castle; let us pull gently, and keep a sharp look-out."
So steadily they glided underneath the long arms of the trees, sending the water-hens scurrying away into the thick recesses of foliage, or diving beneath the surface, and coming up again on the other side with a plash; whilst the snipe and lovely kingfishers, on fleet wing, skimmed over the surface into the solitudes ahead.
"Surely," said Alice, "this is a slice out of Paradise."
"Yes," said Jeannette; "it is lovely. And that's the fallen tree where the Saxon and I sat together."
"Not the Saxon, Jeannette; his follower, you mean."
"Oh, but I don't think he is merely a follower, my lady. I believe they are equal; leastways, he is only a little lower in rank."
It is, perhaps, needless to say that since Oswald's recovery, scarcely had a sunny day passed when the placid bosom of the river had not been anxiously scanned by the other two persons most interested in a second meeting with these fair Norman women. It is scarcely necessary to say also that two stalwart individuals had seen the slim boat gliding slowly up the stream, and, for the last quarter of an hour, had been rapidly clearing the distance which separated them from it. We may also say, without exaggeration, that these frail women met these stalwart Saxons with much less of perturbation than when they last met; though if we were to say that there were no fluttering of hearts, and no crimson blushes mounting to the face and neck, and no trembling of limbs, as they reached out their hands to be helped on to the embankment; or if we were to say that Jeannette did not utter a little scream, and clutch Wulfhere most tenaciously, as the boat gave a treacherous lurch as she stepped from it; we should not be faithful chroniclers. Again Wulfhere and Jeannette sat on the fallen tree and watched by the boat; whilst Oswald and Alice sauntered by the river's side, and Alice told her tale of coming disaster. We know she did not resist as Oswald's arm lovingly encircled her, and he bade her be of good cheer. In low, earnest tones they talked of all that lay in their hearts; and Oswald was able to convince her that the dark cloud ahead would be found to have a silver lining. It was truly passing strange that this high-born lady should yield herself so unreservedly to this Saxon. There was no reason, or prudence, or wisdom in it possibly. But the divine instinct of love, which is born in—not acquired—but born in and indigenous to every pure and unsullied woman's heart, ventured, with sheer and utter abandonment, to give her heart to him. The same instinct which revolted in utter abhorrence at the thought of contact with the brutal Norman, drove her irresistibly to the sheltering arms of the pure-minded and valorous Saxon. They laid their plans for further interviews, all the while unconscious that eyes, glistening with fury, were peering through the brushwood, and mad hate was rankling in the breast of an unseen foe, who scarce could forbear to rush in and execute vengeance on the spot.